


Pass Me By

by theLiterator



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, tumblr: winterhawk week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flashbacks and self-care are two of many things you shouldn't have to handle alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass Me By

**Author's Note:**

> The theme was disability, and I was instantly made to think of how PTSD is something the VA considers when assessing a veteran for his service-related disability, and so I had to wrack my brain for a way to make this work, wherein both men are disabled, but where one can help the other. I hope this worked as well as I wanted it to.

The thing that kills him every time isn't the nightmares; he's had nightmares since he was a kid. _Everyone_ has nightmares. He's pretty sure that it's _not_ having nightmares that makes you weird.

No, it's not the nightmares that send him reeling and flailing and gasping for air that isn't there, it's the flashbacks. And they aren't triggered by normal things, either. He can get through a whole goddamned battle with the _God of Thunder_ and not once fall out, but the second he is in the grocery store trying to decide on whether he wants mild or medium salsa with his part-sized bag of Tostitos, that's when he feels everything flicker.

At least in nightmares, he doesn't _know_ that what's happening to him isn't real. When he's flashing back, it's like there're two of him. A guy who wants some damned salsa, and a guy who is sobbing and begging for the torture to stop. Unfortunately, it's the guy who's trapped in a full-blown hallucination that the handful of innocent bystanders gets to see, and that? That is why he knows what the hell is happening when a filthy, hunched man hits his knees in the middle of the bodega and starts _keening_.

He shoves his way through the crowd of concerned aunties and sets up a perimeter.

"Hey, man," he says, carefully putting an open palm within the man's line of sight. "We're in the canned goods aisle. That's the real one. Promise."

He knows how the VA categorizes its headcases, and that makes him want to know why they ever let him out of their sight. He's _not_ fighting fit yet. He's the sort of filthy you only get if you can't remember how to bathe; and he's unshaven and his clothes are on wrong.

When it ends, Clint is ready to catch because the next part, he knows, is like vertigo, and the man topples into Clint's chest, and Clint wraps him in a loose embrace. He has no idea where the triggers are, here, but... it's a risk that pays out, after all.

The man is clinging tightly, panting hot breaths into Clint's neck. "Okay," Clint tells him, tells the gathered shoppers. "It's cool. I'm going to..."

Well, he isn't sure what normal people do when they find a PTSD stricken vet in the bodega, but what Clint is going to do is get him home, get him bathed, and get him dressed, and then work from there.

***

Clint is always grateful that he has his own suite in the Tower and that no one comments on his coming and going. He is equally, grateful, today, for JARVIS's stolid, unquestioning presence.

"I need you to look up, like, therapists who can handle the bad stuff. The war stuff," Clint says as he coaxes the man into his front room. There is an obscene shower in the master bedroom, which is his ultimate goal, but the man is still halfway gone, and he hasn't responded to any of Clint's light chatter or his questions about his name, or even what unit he served with, which Clint is totally cool with. He'll figure it out, or JARVIS will.

"Alright, man, you want to take a shower on Tony Stark's dime? Because that shit is amazing and I know you're going to brag about it once you're..."

Well.

Clint had had, like, people. And a job. And goals. And he still isn't really _better_ so much as better at faking it. "Well, once you're settled back into life stateside," he decides on.

The man is pliant-- too pliant. Clint manfully ignores that and strips him out of his layers-- and layers-- of clothes.

He whistles when he sees the prosthetic, and tries not to let it ping some long-lost memory. A briefing, maybe? He ignores that, and just drops to his knees and works on getting the rest of the man's clothes off.

"Is it okay for you to get that thing wet?" he muses, not really expecting an answer.

JARVIS replies, "According to my scans, yes. Should I alert anyone?"

Clint considers, then shakes his head. "Let's get him clean and fed, then we'll worry about the realy fucking creepy robot arm. And by 'worry about' I mean 'tell Stark about' of course."

"Of course, sir. The shower is on and ready for you."

And it was going to have to be both of them, because the man was only doing exactly what Clint guided him into doing. He'd heard it could be this bad-- he'd seen the questions the VA shrinks asked; he'd been _asked_ the questions the VA shrinks asked. But he'd just...

Well, he hadn't believed that crap. Who was so overwhelmed by prior trauma that they couldn't even eat without being fed?

Clint strips down to his skin too, and takes the man's hand to guide him into the master bedroom, where the hiss of the shower finally catches the man's attention.

His expression shifts to something... resigned.

"Well, come on, then," Clint says. "I've go like eight different body washes. I’ll even let you pick."

It’s sort of halfway between leading a child around and doing what he himself wished people had done for him. Given a bath sponge that was already lathered, the man cleans himself, and once that’s done, he settles into a crouch and tips his head back in clear invitation for Clint to shampoo his hair. Unsure of his skills with that, he grabs his trusty Johnson & Johnson and pours a rather generous amount all over his hand and the man's hair.

"I don't usually wash hair until at least the fifth date," he jokes, because running chatter was way better than silence.

Clint keeps up a stupid running commentary the entire time he spends rinsing the man off and then dragging him out into his bedroom and putting him into pajamas.

There’s food on a tray at his door, and the other clothes are gone, and Clint shudders a little at the thought of other people in his space without his knowledge.

"James," the man says while Clint sets the table.

Clint freezes and then covers it up by starting to scoop fried rice onto his plate.

"I'm Clint, it's a pleasure."

James nods. "That was. Kind."

Clint shrugs. "Or, it was kidnapping. I'm not really sure where the line falls in situations like that." Except that James had served. Except that Clint had served. And that was really enough, a lot of the time.

"107th," James adds.

"That's a legacy and a half," Clint says. "I was 75th for awhile, and then I didn't have a unit designation for awhile after that."

James nods. "I. Didn't either?"

Clint sucks in a breath through his teeth. "Sucks, yeah?" he says, because that was the sort of thing you couldn't talk about ever.

Some shit eventually got declassified. Their shit never did.

"Maybe. Yes?"

James keeps eating, and Clint matches him bite for bite.

"You know?" James asks.

Clint shrugs.

"It gets better?"

Clint shrugs again.

James nods. "I should. Leave. Before they find me again."

"Stay," Clint says. "I can handle my own against whoever _they_ are." He suspects that 'they' were rather metaphorical, but he won't say so aloud. It'd scare James off, and he doesn't need to be scared anymore.

James gives him an assessing once-over, and he nods again. "Maybe. One day."

"As long as you like," Clint says.


End file.
